§ § § -- March 16, 1996
Conveniently, Roarke found the tour group standing in front of the bungalow that had been set aside for the two women, all of them chatting with Leslie except for Simon Lightwood-Wynton, who held himself somewhat apart from the rest. Roarke remembered his mother Catherine's fantasy from the summer of 1982, and he had been aware at the time that Leslie and Simon didn't get along; but Leslie had never let him in on most of what had happened while she was assigned as Simon's "keeper". Perhaps, he thought, he'd indulge his curiosity at a more opportune moment. He parked the station wagon in front of the bungalow and returned everyone's greetings.
"What a lovely island, Mr. Roarke," said Sangeeta Madichetty with enthusiasm. "I always heard the stories, but I never thought I would see it."
"Thank you, Ms. Madichetty," Roarke replied with a warm smile. "Have all of you had a chance to settle in?"
He was greeted with a chorus of affirmative replies and nodding heads. Simon Lightwood-Wynton spoke up: "Mr. Roarke, I had a question…did my parents sell the mansion they once owned here?"
"Yes, several years ago," Roarke said. "I seem to recall your mother once mentioning the possibility of returning yearly, but…"
Simon shrugged. "We never got around to it. It's just too much of a distance, and Mum wasn't willing to endure such long flights. At any rate, it's good to be back again." Roarke caught Leslie's astonished expression, which heightened his curiosity all the more, but he controlled it and kept his attention on their guests.
"Perhaps you good people would permit me an indulgence," Roarke suggested with another smile. "I have spoken at some length with Mr. Blanchard, and he is quite adamant about carrying out his fantasy. Tell me, have any of you considered the incredible danger you'll be facing? A tornado is not something to be trifled with."
"We are aware of that, señor," said Joachim Albarran. "But it is our understanding that tornadoes are a very real part of American life, and that the danger of encountering one in the States is much higher than in any other country on earth. Nonetheless, last year I read of a tornado near the town where I was born and raised, and I am determined to educate as many of my students as possible. This is part of my preparation for my secondary-school science classes, you see."
"Ah," said Roarke. "Ms. Niemeyer?"
"It seemed quite exciting," Hannelore Niemeyer said and smiled a little sheepishly. "I will admit, the idea of such a storm frightens me, but there's an element of excitement as well. I believe in having a healthy respect for these American storms."
"I as well," Jiro Tamori said, and Enzo DiSandro nodded tacitly.
"I must prove to my parents that I can survive on my own," Sangeeta Madichetty said with a steely resolve in her soft voice. "I have a college education and I am well qualified to hold down a good job; but my parents want to commit me to an arranged marriage and a secluded life. The very thought is anathema to me. I'm sure that choosing the experience of surviving a tornado sounds rather extreme to you, Mr. Roarke, but as a matter of fact, I once saw one at a distance from my home. It was a truly awe-inspiring sight, even though it frightened me as well. I was a child then, and from that day forward I learned everything I could possibly find about tornadoes."
"As for you, Mr. Lightwood-Wynton?" Roarke prompted.
Simon flicked a glance at Leslie, whose expression was studiedly neutral. "I'm not quite through with chasing thrills yet, I fear, Mr. Roarke. At any rate, I've always found America to be a particularly primitive and rather savage place, and I see tornadoes as the embodiment of that primitiveness and savagery. It's merely my wish to watch one chewing up the countryside." He smiled coolly and trained his gaze on Leslie again, as if mocking her. Leslie, Roarke noticed, was eyeing the ceiling and maintaining her neutral face only with noticeable effort. Again he wondered how often she and Simon Lightwood-Wynton had been at odds that summer fourteen years before.
"So I can say nothing to dissuade any of you from participating in Mr. Blanchard's fantasy?" Roarke asked.
"Not a word," Jiro Tamori said with an apologetic smile. "We all know exactly what lies in store for us, and we're all willing to face it."
"We understand that Wayne Blanchard is one of the most informed operators in the field of tornado-chasing tours," Joachim Albarran added. "I have no doubt we're in good hands under his leadership."
"Yes, he seems quite competent…for an American," said Simon Lightwood-Wynton.
In the face of their quiet determination, Roarke gave in. "Very well," he said and nodded. "In that case, you shall all have your joint fantasy." He took out his gold watch and noted the time. "There are nearly two hours before you and Mr. Blanchard are to meet us back at the main house, so you shall all have time for a good meal and some relaxation before then. Please, enjoy yourselves, and make liberal use of all the amenities."
The tour group thanked him, and Leslie followed him off the porch of the bungalow and to the car. "So you've been trying to discourage them all," she remarked, more to herself than to him. "Seems sensible enough to me. I just wish they'd listened."
"I have found over the years that human beings frequently find it necessary to learn things the hard way," said Roarke with a rueful smile. "Yes, despite my misgivings and my objections, I will be granting this fantasy." He regarded her thoughtfully across the top of the car. "I find it interesting that Miss Madichetty actually has more experience with tornadoes than does Mr. Blanchard."
Leslie stared at him. "Are you saying that Wayne Blanchard has never seen one?"
"Unfortunately, yes—but he is, if anything, the most stubborn and determined of them all." Roarke slipped into the car and Leslie followed suit, but he continued to watch her for a moment without turning the key. "Leslie, tell me…precisely what went on between you and Simon Lightwood-Wynton the summer he came here with his mother?"
She caught her breath in surprise and stared at him, turning pink. "I thought you knew he and I didn't get along at all. Don't tell me you forgot the way he wanted us to shut down the entire amusement park solely for his benefit, and how he pushed you for ten minutes over the phone from the mansion trying to make you accede to his wishes."
"No, I haven't forgotten," Roarke said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "but I might remind you that I had very little contact with him otherwise. And you never did explain to me just why it was that you and he didn't get along."
Leslie looked away, clearly uncomfortable. "He was a spoiled-brat rich kid who thought that his money meant he should get anything he wanted. And he treated me like dirt the whole time he was here."
"Specify," Roarke suggested, finally starting the car.
"He acted as if I were his servant, that's all," Leslie muttered.
Roarke glanced at her. "Is that really all?"
She blew out an exasperated breath. "Father, why are you asking me now?"
Roarke laughed softly. "Primarily because I sense a certain amount of that same mutually-hostile attitude lingering between the two of you, and I have begun to think that there is more to your story than you're telling." He patted her shoulder at sight of her pained look. "All right, we'll drop the subject for the moment. If you'll check with Mariki about lunch, you may have the intervening time free until Mr. Blanchard and his group return."
At eleven-thirty precisely, the stormchaser group gathered in the main house, just as Leslie came down from upstairs where she had been holed up for most of the time Roarke had allotted her. At first he didn't notice, involved as he was in greeting their guests and asking if they had been enjoying themselves. But then he looked around and stared at her: she was dressed in jeans, sneakers and a pink cotton shirt, and carried a small overnight bag. She met his quizzical look with a determined one of her own, and he gave up for the moment and addressed the entire group.
"There is an island approximately one hour from here by hydrofoil launch, a place known for its unusually inclement weather. There is one small town there, but primarily the island is given over to farmland. Its topography very closely resembles the terrain you would find in the American Plains states where tornadoes are most common. Leslie and I will take you there, and this is where your fantasy will begin. Are you ready?"
Heads nodded and a chorus of murmured assent rose. Roarke gestured toward the door and deliberately let their guests file out ahead of them, stepping around the desk and falling in beside Leslie. "Why are you dressed like that, Leslie, and carrying that bag?"
She drew in a fortifying breath; she'd known he would question her, and she had carefully rehearsed her explanations. "I'm going along with the group, Father."
Roarke's dark eyes widened in alarm. "You certainly are not, Leslie Susan! Whatever gave you the idea to do this?"
"I've always been afraid of thunderstorms, you know that," she said, trailing the group as she spoke but remaining far enough behind to keep their conversation relatively private. "I'm almost 31, Father, and I think it's time I learned to get over that fear. This seems like the only possible way I can do it."
"By accompanying a tornado-chasing excursion? That's overkill," Roarke protested.
She shrugged. "Well, that may be, but I spent my time upstairs watching a tape I got from the library in town. Among other things, I discovered that tornadoes are always born of especially violent thunderstorms. I figured that if I could face down a tornado and live through it, any thunderstorm I encounter after this should be a piece of cake." She answered Roarke's astonished look with a slightly sheepish grin. "Yeah, okay, so it's overkill. But I think it's also going to be pretty effective. And you yourself have said a few times that we ought to find a way of addressing my thunderstorm phobia. This seemed like a golden opportunity to me."
"Leslie, I put a great deal of effort into emphasizing to Mr. Blanchard just how perilous this undertaking is, and I am granting his fantasy only under duress. Do you truly believe that I would willingly and blithely sanction the desire of my only child to join this foray?" Roarke and Leslie stopped at the top of the porch steps and faced each other, he alarmed, she nervous but adamant. He read her expression and began to shake his head. "I suppose I am about to face the same resistance from you that I did from our guests."
She nodded. "I'm sorry, Father, but I really think this is something I have to do. Believe me, I'm not going to deliberately and recklessly put myself in danger. If I have any questions, those in the know can tell me what I need to find out. I'm not going into this with blinders on, Father, I promise. But I am going to do it, no matter what, so you might as well let me go." She glanced into the lane, where Blanchard and the others waited, watching them with increasing puzzlement. "We really should get going before we're faced with a riot," she concluded, grinning.
Roarke sighed heavily. "Young lady, you're simply too stubborn for your own good," he said, but she saw the glimmer in his eye that told her he had given in and was teasing her. "Very well, I'll allow this—with great reluctance, mind you, but I'll allow it. Please, my child, be safe." This he said with quiet urgency, and she smiled, tipping swiftly forward to kiss his cheek.
"I'll do my best, Father," she promised. "Come on, let's go."
They descended the steps and joined their guests, and between them all they took a caravan of three jeeps to the marina where a new dock had been constructed over the winter and hydrofoil service to select islands had been instated. In fact, the operation was the brainchild of Leslie's friend Lauren's husband Brian Knight, whose expertise with boats had stood him in excellent stead when he decided to sell his lucrative charter-fishing business and take on something entirely new. Brian himself captained the launch, with Lauren as his business partner and often his first mate, as she was today. Roarke gave Brian the name of their destination, and he nodded agreement and prepared to depart.
Lauren approached them and greeted Leslie and Roarke. "Off on an overnighter?" she asked Leslie.
"Of sorts," Leslie said evasively. "It's part of a fantasy, actually."
"Aha." Lauren nodded sagely. Like Leslie's other friends, she knew when to stop asking questions once she discovered something was involved in the fantasy-granting business. "Well, then, good luck. Mr. Roarke, we had word that some bad weather's on its way in, so this is going to be our only run for the day."
"I understand," Roarke said. "Thank you, Lauren." He cast Leslie an unreadable look and went to find a seat. She sighed tolerantly and followed him, choosing a window seat.
The ride to the island passed mostly in silence, except for Simon Lightwood-Wynton holding a discussion with Brian about something the others couldn't hear. There was an air of solemnity about the rest of the group, putting Simon's casual air at odds with the general mood. As the trip progressed, the sky became overcast and gradually darker, holding Leslie's constant attention as she tried to gauge what the massing clouds might hold in store.
At last they docked at the tiny marina of a fairly good-sized island. One by one the passengers stepped out onto the dock and filed onto dry land. They stood on what appeared to be the main drag of a burg only a few blocks square; beyond the town limits, rolling farmland spread out to the horizon, where the peaks of a low mountain range poked at the undersides of the lowering clouds. Roarke caught up with them and indicated the street.
"This is Cedar Heights," he told them, "settled several decades ago by the descendants of families originally displaced by the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. The inhabitants experience frequent intense storms, and tornadoes are not unknown here. It's my understanding that this weekend is expected to be particularly inclement." He fixed Wayne Blanchard with a long look. "My daughter will be with you throughout the weekend, and she will know how to get in touch with me should any questions arise in the course of your stay here. I caution you to take care of her, and indeed of all your charges, Mr. Blanchard."
Blanchard peered back at him, managing to look both surprised and insulted. "I always take good care of my tour groups, Mr. Roarke. But you didn't tell me…"
"It was her decision," Roarke said brusquely, thereby revealing his dire misgivings about leaving Leslie behind. "In any case, I must get back before the weather worsens. Good luck…and good chasing." With that, he strode away toward the launch, leaving Blanchard and his seven charges standing uncertainly on the sidewalk in a brisk breeze. Leslie stared after Roarke for a moment, wavering between her wish to rid herself of her phobia and her uneasiness over her chosen way of doing it; but before she could chicken out, the launch roared to life and began to pull away from the dock. Well, that's that, she thought.
"Okay, folks," Blanchard called out, "let's find a place to crash for the night. After that we'll get a good local forecast and meet for supper, and ask some questions." He headed off toward a small hotel down the street, and the others trailed him, checking the sky with varying degrees of anxiety or, in Simon Lightwood-Wynton's case, scanning their surroundings. The breeze tossed the women's hair around and carried a faint rumble of thunder from the distant mountains.